


A ride home

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad boi Jon, Car Sex, Chance Meetings, Childhood Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Kissing, Second Chance Romance, Slice of Life, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 09:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Daenerys is used to living life by other people's expectations - until a steamy encounter with her childhood friend Jon makes her realise she deserves more. But is it too late to get the one she wants?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 26
Kudos: 217





	A ride home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LustOnMyFingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Sharon! You didn't think you could give me a gift and not expect one back? I am still so in love with the stories that you gifted me, so I hope this will show some of my love for my long-lost twin! When I asked Martha for advice on what you'd like, she basically said: "Anything that I like, Sharon likes," and that's when I knew what to create... (So blame her for this, basically. Definitely blame her for the beautiful art!).
> 
> I hope you had a great day - and I can't wait for all the restrictions to lift so we can meet up!

Daenerys is wet with sweat, her calves ache from running uphill, and she can barely catch her breath when she stops and bends over to tie her laces. Her cheeks simmer with heat, and her sides sting from exhaustion. She can feel an itch on her back. It goes all the way between her buttocks where her string has wedged itself deep into the crack. She tugs at the nylon of her legging as she tries to free it, but before she can get a hold of the elastic band, a black van slows at her side.

The window cracks open. A man shouts: “I preferred you bent over!” and Daenerys, briefly catching sight of her own frazzled reflection in the side-view mirror, wonders:

_Have men always been this desperate?_

It’s May. It’s early morning. The sun is rising in the horizon, spilling red and gold across the woodlands, yet the paths of the forest are still bathed in the cold from the night. It’s quiet between the trees; for miles, Daenerys has run alone, nothing but birds keeping her company. But this last stretch before town follows the main road. It’s usually desolate at this hour - just not today.

Daenerys knows she could turn and hide in the shadows of the shrubs. But pride spurs her on, and she sets off in a brisk jog.

The car edges downhill alongside her. “Hey,” the man calls.

Daenerys ignores him, keeping her gaze fixed ahead.

“Hey,” he calls again.

Daenerys’ hands turn to fists at her waist.

“Your laces are still undone,” he comments.

She doesn’t want to look - but she does see; the pink ribbons dancing on her new trainers. They are loosening at every step. “Thanks,” she says, though she immediately regrets it. _I'm being too British,_ she supposes as she stops, _always so damn polite._

The car pauses behind her. Through the cracked window, she can hear the radio playing. _Led Zeppelin._ She imagines the man to be as old as the band, with greasy hair and a wedding band and small, piercing eyes staring at her from the safety of his van. It makes her hesitate.

“Go on then,” he says, “or you’ll trip on them.”

“Oh, I’m walking from here on anyway,” Daenerys lies.

“Alright, but you’ll get them dirty, then.”

“They’re old,” she says, feigning carelessness, “I don’t mind.”

“No, they’re not,” the guy argues, “you bought them last month.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. In _Sports Direct._ Got a mug too.”

“No, I didn’t,” Daenerys repeats, but she feels uneasy. Despite the sun, her skin seems cold and her arms prickle with goosebumps. _Has he been stalking me?_ she wonders, glancing back at the car. The light falls onto the windscreen and blinds her. She can’t see the driver’s face, just make out the shape of his body as he moves around inside. The passenger door pops open. She swallows to force her heart down her throat as panic sets in. _Has he been waiting to get me alone?_

A hand waves her closer. It’s pale, and rough, and sporting a tattoo across the knuckles: _K. I. N. G._ Even before the car rolls forward and allows her to peek inside, Daenerys breathes:

_“Jon!”_

Jon grins back at her from behind the wheel. “Morning. Want a ride?”

“You fucking dickhead.” Daenerys grabs onto the side of the door as she pats her chest. Her heart is beating rapidly. She thinks she could vomit.

“I take that means yes.”

“It means: _you fucking dickhead._ I thought I was going to get kidnapped!”

“What, you didn’t know it was me?”

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have continued to run.”

“You call that _running?”_

Daenerys feels her cheeks sting with embarrassment. Eager to change the subject, she pats at the hood of the black van. “New car?” she asks and, when Jon nods, adds: “No wonder I didn’t recognise you. You always drove that beat-up Ford.”

“New car, new me,” Jon shrugs.

Daenerys peers in at him. _New car,_ she agrees, a small smile on her lips as he meets her gaze with a grin, _but old you._

Jon hasn’t changed much since sixth form, Daenerys thinks. He has the same unruly curls, and same black beard, and same tattered leather jacket with the same band patches sewn onto the sleeves. But he does have more tattoos. From above the popped collar, she spots the newest; a white wolf growling on his neck.

“Do you like it?” he asks. “I got it done last week. It was a nightmare sitting through the Florida heat though.”

“Florida! You’ve been travelling then?”

“You know me - I’ve always got places to be, people to meet.”

 _Interesting friends to hang with,_ she presumes.

“Well?” Jon grabs at the steering wheel and quirks his brows at her.

Daenerys blinks. “Well what?”

“Did you want a ride?”

As Jon pops on a pair of shades, Daenerys bites her cheek in thought. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, she knows, _it’s that I don’t trust myself._ Her gaze follows the line of his jaw, the bump of his Adam’s apple, the thickness of his biceps, the tightness of his jeans. Despite standing still, her heartbeat quickens. When he glances out at her, she forces a laugh:

“It kind of defeats the point of running, doesn’t it?” but she gets in all the same. The seat is boiling, and the leather groans when her damp leggings rub against it. She pretends not to notice and clicks on her seatbelt as Jon sets off down the road.

The aircon is on. The car smells new; of hot air and fabric and chemicals. An air-freshener hangs from the rearview mirror. _Clean cotton._ As soon as she gets a whiff of it, it’s gone in a cough of smoke. Jon has lit a cigarette. It bumps from between his lips as he talks:

“Bet you’re wondering how I knew about your shoes.” He shrugs out of his jacket, one sleeve at a time, always keeping a hand on the wheel. As the leather peels off, Daenerys can see his arms; every inch covered in tattoos. Angels, and demons, and ravens, and wolves. “I follow your Instagram, you know.”

“Ah, I did wonder if you were a stalker,” Daenerys replies with a wry smile.

“Exciting stuff. You post a lot of pictures of food.”

“I’ve always loved to cook.”

“Guess you got your little housewife dream after all, then,” he grins.

Daenerys’ smile falters. She wraps a pale lock of hair around her finger before pinning it back up. “Right,” she says, “almost.”

“Almost?”

Daenerys looks ahead. They’ve paused at a red light. There’s no one else around. She pretends to be looking at something in the distance as she replies: “We broke up, some months back.”

Jon bites his teeth together into a grimace. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t know.”

“How could you? We’ve not spoken since, well, the party, I guess?”

“That’s right, the party,” Jon says with a nod. “That’s been-”

“-three years,” Daenerys finishes his sentence with ease. She looks at him. He meets her eyes. When the light changes, he takes a few seconds to realise. As he carries on, Daenerys reaches over and turns up the radio. _Guns N’ Roses._ She cracks the window further down and lets the wind and music blow her memories away. But one remains:

Jon, his mouth tastes of smoke, his hands are hard on her body. She urges him to take her, to hold her, to pin her down. She wants her hair pulled. She wants her neck marked. She wants her body bruised. When he fucks her, she forgets herself. She exists in his breath on her face.

“Where should I drop you off?” Jon asks, and Daenerys blinks at him.

“What?”

“I mean, do you still live…?” He gestures vaguely at nothing.

“Oh, right. Yes, same old house. Lucky me - I got to keep the mortgage.”

“Lucky you,” Jon agrees, and they smile awkwardly at each other before turning back to the road.

The sweat on Daenerys’ body has started to dry. Her crop top feels raw against her skin, and her leggings are gnawing at her hips. She tries to adjust herself without drawing any attention. Her damp buttocks have left a wet mark on the leather seat. She wipes the spot off in the back of her hand with a cough. “So, anyway,” she says, breaking the quiet over the music, “what’re you doing back here?”

“I’m seeing an estate agent.”

“An agent? Are you moving?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’m getting a parlour? _”_ he smirks.

Daenerys gawks at him. “You really did it? You got your own tattoo parlour?”

“Told you I would, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Daenerys says. Her gawk is turning into an amazed smile. She shakes her head as she leans against the door, cheek in hand, and stares at him. “How did you do it? Weren’t you still an apprentice some years back?”

“Met the right people,” Jon shrugs, “did the right stuff.”

 _While I did everything wrong,_ Daenerys thinks. She doesn’t say anything, but she senses it shows on her face anyway - how her eyes no longer shine, and her smile never really reaches her ears. She’s long come to accept it, but in Jon’s grey eyes she can see concern. Through the dark shades, she can feel him watching her. She’s not sure whether or not she likes it.

They drive into town as the sun breaks above the horizon. In the orange glow, the asphalt shines, and even the old terraced houses with their worn down facades look appealing when wrapped in the golden light. Jon mutters: “I can’t believe how long it’s been!” as he looks around, and Daenerys reminisces out loud:

“Do you remember when we got roller-blades and you chased me into that bush?” She points across the road.

Jon laughs. “I’d forgotten that!”

“I got so many thorns stuck on my hands that it took Mum hours to peel them all out. She wouldn’t let us play for weeks.”

“But you snuck me through your window,” Jon smiles.

Daenerys bites her lower lip as she tries to suppress a grin. “I sure did. Oh, and we spent that next summer by the lake.”

“Right, where I taught you to swim.”

“Taught me to _drown,_ more like it. You were a bad teacher.”

“Not as bad as you were at maths. The amount of times you cheated off my tests-”

 _“You_ cheated off _me!_ Couldn’t tell Australia from Africa, if I remember right.”

“Mhm, not sure you do,” Jon says with a teasing smile, “remember right, that is.”

“Well, I do remember our sleepover in my backyard, the year you got that tent for the festival and wanted us to test it out,” Daenerys says, and laughs: “It broke in the night!” She turns to Jon, expecting him to chuckle along, but he looks nonplussed. He rolls his cigarette around his lips. Ashes glow red on the end of it as he slowly inhales.

“I don’t remember that,” he finally admits, smoke seeping from the corners of his mouth, “sorry.”

“Ah,” Daenerys says, and she assured him: “No bother.” Yet when she sinks back into the seat, she grows quiet. Her gaze slips around the car. It hasn’t got a single scratch, or speck of dirt, or any signs of _life_ on it. _He lives in a world full of new excitements,_ she realises, _whilst my world is old and dented with memories._

Daenerys knows every bump in the road. She has counted every lamppost on every street. She has babysat every child in her neighbourhood. She always wanted more. She always expected more. But then the party happened.

At the next corner, Jon makes a turn, drives to the end of the street, and rolls into the last driveway on the left. He parks outside a yellow brick building. The house looks fit for a retired couple, complete with hollyhocks framing the doorway and wispy curtains drawn in the upstairs bedroom. They sit for a moment, just letting the spring heat settle in the van and the music fill the silence. _AC/DC._ Daenerys takes in a sharp breath

\- but before she has to ask, Jon already holds out a cigarette. She pops it between her lips, lets him light it, and has a deep drag. It burns her lungs. She tastes the harsh tobacco on the smoke as it rolls back out across her tongue. “Fucking prick,” she coughs.

“Me?” Jon asks.

Daenerys has another drag. She stares angrily at the bedroom window, as if she can see through the curtains into the past. “Do you know what the worst part was? That he fell in love. I sometimes wish he would’ve just cheated on me. It would’ve given me an excuse to be angry.”

“You can still be angry.”

“Good girls are never angry,” Daenerys argues. The words taste bitter. She feels like vomiting. She closes her eyes as she continues to smoke. “He was honest. He was upfront. He said: _this isn’t working out.”_

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Jon asks.

“Is it? Then why do I feel so shit?” Daenerys opens her eyes again. She continues to stare at the curtains. She left the window ajar. The breeze is playing with the fabric, throwing it about. She thinks it’s her up there - caught in the wind, eager to let go and see where it takes her. But she’s held in place. Locked inside. It almost makes her laugh. “Sorry,” she says after a minute of silence. She sends Jon a guilty look. “You didn’t come to listen to me moan. Thanks for the ride.” She reaches for the door, but before she can make a move, Jon grabs her by the wrist.

“Dany.” His fingers around her are firm though his hold is gentle. When she turns to look at him, he doesn’t let go. He pushes his sunglasses into his hair, trapping the loose curls beneath the dark glass. His grey eyes are pleading.

Daenerys swallows. “Jon,” she replies.

“I can’t let you go like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” she promises.

Jon smiles hopelessly. “But you’re not,” he says before adding, “and I’m not.”

Daenerys looks at his hand. His fingertips are digging into her skin, making it blush. At once she craves his mark; not violence, but passion. _It leaves much deeper impressions than memories,_ she thinks, her gaze flickering from his hold to his eyes again. _Desire._ “Are you going to kiss me?” she asks.

Jon looks surprised. “Do you want me to?”

“Please don’t make me beg.”

Jon throws his cigarette out of the open window, grabs her by the cheek, and kisses her. He tastes of smoke. He smells of leather. He feels of the past.

 _But he is real,_ she knows.

Daenerys pushes her hand through his curls as she leans into the kiss. His tongue is on her lips, then in her mouth, rounding up the taste of her warm breath and bitter ashes. She lingers in his morning coffee, a tinge of the strong espresso still on his teeth, and it seems so mundane that she wants to laugh.

But when his hand slips down her neck, across her breasts tightly wrapped in the sports-bra, further still to her bare midriff, she loses herself to the feeling. He pulls her by the waist. She’s balancing her cigarette in the other hand. The seatbelt across her chest is tight. When he drags her closer, it locks in place, jerking her back into the seat. “Shit.”

“Sorry,” Jon says. He looks ashamed. He pulls away.

Daenerys shakes her head. “No, it’s the belt.” She throws out her smoke before undoing it, reaches for Jon, pushes herself back into his hold. She’s straddled between their seats. When he grabs her by the waist again, he curtly tucks her into his lap. His jeans are tight around his groin. She can feel the hard shape of his bulge rub to her damp leggings. When he kisses her, she imagines it’s no longer her string dragging between her buttocks, but his thick cock.

Their kisses grow deeper, more desperate, more needy. Jon’s hot breath is in her throat. His ravaging hands are on her body; he tugs at her top, he snaps the elastic band of her leggings, he holds onto the soft curve of her behind.

Outside, the sky is growing lighter. The sun spills into the car, lights up the van, makes the heat simmer off the leather. In the ragged air, she can smell them - worn off deodorant and sweat. She wonders if it’s him. She wonders if it’s her. When he pushes his hands up beneath her top, she doesn’t care anymore - she slips out of it and drags off the bra, letting her breasts pop free of the restraint.

“Fucking hell,” Jon mumbles, and his bulge rubs to her thigh, “are you sure?”

“What, like we haven’t done it before?”

“But your neighbours-”

“-are all old and asleep,” Daenerys says. Jon’s fingers are already on her, rubbing the marks from her bra, stroking across her nipples. She shivers when he pinches them. “Don’t make me go in the house. I hate that fucking place. If you’re worried about your car-”

“Fuck my car,” Jon interrupts gruffly, and he flips them around and kicks the seat back in the same.

Daenerys gasps as she’s pushed backwards. Jon’s jacket gnaws against the curve of her back, the sleeves hanging off the seat. As he wrestles off her leggings, she holds onto the leather, traces the band patches with her fingertips. She remembers each one just by touch:

\- KISS, she got it for his fifteenth birthday. It was winter. They walked alongside the frosty fields, hand in hand, pretending it’s what friends do. And;

\- Metallica, they bought it at a gift shop in London. They ate burgers in his car whilst she sewed it on. The M turned pink from the spilled ketchup. And;

\- Iron Maiden, it was a leftover from her brother. Rhaegar gave it to Viserys who gave it to her. “It’s shit music,” Viserys insisted. Jon proudly displayed it on his shoulder for all to see. And;

 _Nirvana._ The radio changes. _Come as you are_ hammers through the car as Jon tugs her string aside and pushes two fingers into her wet cunt. Daenerys moans and arches her back, her nails digging into his tee.

“Take it off,” she instructs.

Jon practically tears the fabric over his head. He was lean three years ago, she remembers. Now he’s firm, the muscles defined, his skin glistening with tattoos she never could’ve imagined. A sword rests between his pecs. She kisses it as her hands dip low to his jeans.

“Do you ever think about it?” Jon asks. He groans as her small hand closes around his warm cock. He’s dripping precum. When she strokes his foreskin backs, it slickens his length.

“About what?”

“The party.”

“No,” Daenerys lies, her grip around his member tightening. “Do you?”

“No,” Jon grunts through his nose. But when he flips her over and dips his head between her buttocks, she knows he’s lying. His wet tongue down her crack, his hand holding her in place by the head, her breath suck in a moan - it all brings her back:

Dark rooms, whispered wishes, heated kisses, greedy hands. She was tired of being good. He was tired of holding back. She barely knew his mouth from his cock. He was warm. She was wet. The table left splinters in her hands from holding on. His grunts echoed in her ears as he fucked her from behind, pinned her down, used her in a frenzy, made her come over and over again until she could’ve wept with pleasure.

 _And I wanted to be used,_ Daenerys knows, hissing as a wet thumb pushes into her ass, loosening her tight muscles, _and I wanted to run away with him._

Jon’s tongue is rough, his fingers are thick. When he nuzzles his nose into the softness between her buttocks, she can feel the prickly ends of his beard brush to her skin. He goes lower. His lips suckle their way down, between her legs, across her cunt. Daenerys gasps as he slides the tip around her sex, wettening his moustache with her juices.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and she gasps in surprise as he lands a firm clap on her ass.

“You swear a lot.”

“Sorry,” she says. _Sorry._ It’s always apologising and _yes_ this and _of course_ that. She smiles at guys, because that’s what good girls do. She goes running in the morning to keep fit, because that’s what good girls do. She laughs at her colleagues’ jokes, because that’s what good girls do. She stopped to talk to a potential stalker - _because that’s what good girls do._ Make them feel good. Make them feel important.

“No you’re not,” Jon says.

Daenerys snaps back to reality. “What?”

“Sorry,” he says. “You’re not sorry.” Something crinkles. Daenerys sees the pink wrapper of a condom carelessly being flung aside. She hears the soft snap as the latex rolls down Jon’s cock, and the wet noise of lube being rubbed across his girth.

She grabs a hold of the top of the seat as she pushes her ass slightly into the air. “What makes you say that?”

“We’re fucking in your driveway in broad daylight.”

“No, we’re fucking in _your car.”_

“That happens to be in _your driveway.”_

“And it’s morning.”

“Psh,” Jon licks his lips, “details.”

“Details!” Daenerys laughs and sends him a teasing glance over her shoulder. He looks handsome, she thinks, with his tattoos slick with sweat and his hair hanging loose over his reddening face. “Like the difference between _Africa and Australia?”_

“Oh, you’re _really_ not sorry,” Jon grins, pushing her down by the shoulder as he guides his cock between her buttocks. She can feel it - how his girth opens her up, the lube slickens her asshole, followed by the pressure as he leans forward.

“And is that an issue?” Daenerys asks.

Jon’s nose brushes to her ear. He smells her silver hair. She can hear his breath, and feel it - a hot breeze against her cheek, a cheeky tone to his voice as he assures her: _“Never be sorry.”_ Then, he takes her.

He’s gentle but firm as he enters her. Daenerys feels the thick shape of his cock as it pushes past her tight ring of muscles, deep inside of her, forcing her body to accommodate him. By the time his balls slap to her skin, she barely remembers how to breathe. Her mouth hangs open. Her body stands tense. Her nails dig so deep into the seat that she’s sure to leave marks on the cover.

 _Good,_ she thinks, biting down on her knuckles, _let him have dented memories too._

“Are you okay?” Jon hovers her. He’s warm, and broad, and heavy when he rests atop of her. “Should I go slow?”

Daenerys knows she should say: “Yes,” but out loud she gasps: “No.” She wants his mark, and his pain. She wants to be aching by the time she leaves the car. She doesn’t know when they’ll meet again. She wants the scents of him to settle on her skin as if they were her own. “No,” she repeats when he still hesitates, and she reaches back to grab a hold of his curls. She twists them around her fingers. It draws a hiss from him. She drags his face over her shoulder until she can kiss to his lips: “I want you to take me _hard.”_

Jon fucks her into the seat. The leather groans. The car rocks slightly. Daenerys is pushed deep into the fabric, her nose bumping against the backrest as Jon grabs onto her buttocks and drags himself out of her only to slam back in. It hurts - but just beneath the ache is pleasure, and as soon as he finds a rhythm, she feels it:

The pure sensation of _letting go._

Jon pushes a hand underneath her to caress her cunt, and Daenerys moans as his fingers enter her wetness. She feels full. She feels whole; as if three years haven’t passed. As if she didn’t leave Jon behind in that room to return to the party. As if she didn’t dance with _that one guy_ because he asked. As if she didn’t agree to date him because he asked. As if they didn’t buy a house because he asked. As if they didn’t get married because he asked. As if she didn’t live her life following somebody else’s rules.

As if she really _did_ run away with Jon, just drove into the night in his beat up van, and found home in the unknown.

 _If only you’d asked,_ Daenerys thinks, biting back tears as Jon’s fingers rub her to an orgasm. Her heartbeat has quickened. Her eyes have shut. Her breathing is heavy. Her mind is foggy. When Jon comes inside of her, she’s never felt better. And she’s never felt worse. _If only you’d asked me to run away with you._

They’re lazy in the afterglow, gasping for air, nestling close, sharing body heat and breath. They kiss. They touch. Jon is halfway on the floor, his arms wrapped around her waist, his cheek pressed to her stomach, and Daenerys is leaned back on the seat, her face turned, her gaze focused on the street. Any minute now, someone will exit their house and see them and the dream will break. She senses it. _Any minute now._

“Do you want a smoke?” Jon asks. He digs around the pockets of his jeans. They hang by his knees. His cock is limp in his briefs. He zips himself up as he climbs into the passenger seat with a grunt. “Maybe something stronger?”

Daenerys tugs her knickers in place. Her cunt drips with juices. Her ass is sore and wet with lube. She feels it spill onto the seat. She doesn’t care - the more marks she leaves, the better, she supposes. When Jon offers her a cigarette, she takes it and has a drag. “Do you really not think about the party?”

Jon chews on his inner cheek. He exhales his answer in a fume of smoke: “Every day.”

“If you’d asked-” she starts, but she stops herself. She glares up at the house. _What’s the point,_ she thinks. _It’s all in the past._

“I couldn’t,” Jon replies.

“Why not?”

“You were a good girl.”

Daenerys laughs. “Good girls don’t fuck their best friends at a reunion.”

“No,” Jon agrees, “but they carry on as they always have.”

“And you didn’t?” Daenerys turns to look at him. She’s surprised by what she finds; despite being lit up by the sun, Jon’s face seems haggard with shadows. He looks like he could cry. He smokes instead. “Jon?”

“I should’ve asked,” he says. His voice seems tense, like someone holding back a shout. “I should’ve been the one who asked you to dance and date and bought that house with you,” he nods at the yellow brickstone, “and married you, and-”

“-and grown bitter wondering what could’ve been?” Daenerys shakes her head. “You’ve done well for yourself. You’ve got your parlour and your travels and everything you always said you wanted.”

“But I’ve not got you.”

Daenerys doesn’t look at him. She stares at the cigarette. Ashes grow thick on its tip.

“Dany.”

Daenerys pouts.

“Please,” Jon says. “Won’t you look at me?”

She looks at him, defiantly. Tears have started spilling down her cheeks. They taste salty on her lips. “I’m fucking thirty,” she says. “I’m fucking thirty, Jon, and I’m naked in your car like some stupid teenager hoping the _cool guy_ will like her. But I’m not.”

“I’m not a cool guy.”

“I know, and I’m not a stupid teenager, but I feel like one.” Daenerys bites back a sob. She can’t stop the tears. She wipes them off in her arm before throwing the smoke aside. She gets dressed in a frenzy as she talks. “Because you’re going to drive away and I’m going to be stuck here in my old life, and this will just be another damn memory to add to my library of shit.”

“Dany-” Jon starts, but she stops him:

 _“Jon.”_ Her crop-top hangs by her neck, her bra is halfway pulled on. She can’t reach her leggings - they’re scrounged up beneath Jon’s feet. “I’ve done it all wrong.”

“You’re thirty, not dead.”

“I’ve done it all wrong,” she repeats, just staring at her leggings.

Jon reaches over. He grabs her by the chin. He forces her to look at him. “Hey,” he says. He stares into her eyes.

Daenerys peers back. She swallows. “Hey,” she replies. She waits. She knows what he’ll say - that he loves her and that they should be together and _fuck the past._ But instead he asks:

“What do you want?”

Daenerys blinks. “What?”

“What do you want?” Jon shrugs and gestures around them.

Daenerys feels lost. She looks around them too, as if she can find the answer on the other side of the car-window. “What do you mean?” she asks.

“Do you want the radio off?”

Daenerys wrinkles her nose. _Journey_ is playing. _Don’t stop believin’._ “No?” she replies.

Jon nods. “Okay. Do you want another smoke?”

“No?” she repeats. She eyes him with suspicion. “What is this?”

“This is you just making decisions about your life.”

“Right, like what music I want to listen to and how I want to die.”

“Amongst other things,” Jon agrees. He leans back in his seat. He looks casual, she thinks, in just his jeans and sneakers. She wonders if she could look like that. She wonders if she _does_ look like that, sitting in the driver seat, wearing just her crop top and panties. “Do you want to go inside?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.” The answer comes easy. Daenerys feels a blush cross her cheeks.

Jon just smiles. “Okay,” he says. “So you don’t want to go inside, and you don’t want me to go. Well, I guess we’re driving somewhere.”

“Where?”

“You tell me - you’re in the driver’s seat.” He gestures for her hand. When she offers it, he places his keys in her palm. When she stares at them, he assures her: “I’m not _giving_ you the car, just the trip.”

“This was just meant to be a ride home,” Daenerys protests. “What about your parlour? What about your agent meeting?”

“I promised you a ride home,” Jon agrees and gestures at the house with his smoke. “Is this really home?”

Daenerys bites her lip. As Jon watches, she puts the key in the engine and starts the motor. The car hums softly. She feels like a jolt of electricity has gone through her body. “I don’t know where to go,” she says.

“That’s fine,” Jon says, kicking back the seat as he gets comfortable. He’s grabbed his shades off the floor. He pops them on, grins around his smoke, and says: “We’ve got another, what, fifty years to figure that out in?”

Daenerys laughs: “You’re out of control,” but once she sets the car into reverse and sees the house disappear again, she feels something new stir inside of her. Perhaps it’s the weather; the sun glows warmly on the blue sky, the wind smells of summer through the cracked windows, the drowsy little neighbourhood suddenly seems too small for her to breathe in. She knows she will have to return. _But perhaps it’s not the end,_ she thinks, glancing toward Jon, _perhaps it’s just another beginning._

She waited for Jon to ask her to run away. Now, she decides whereto. The road ahead is clear - _and it can lead anywhere._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DragonandDirewolf for the amazing art. We hope you liked it!


End file.
